


Your Own Power

by FreezingRayne



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/FreezingRayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not sleeping with someone too drunk to stand under his own power.” The pink tongue that flicks out to lap at the pad of his thumb certainly isn’t doing anything for his self-control, however. “If you still feel the same way in the morning....”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Own Power

Hawke sits at his desk, trying to make sense of a letter that could be yet another attempted scam or a pitiable cry for help from an elven maiden trapped in a fortress, when a great deal of scuffling breaks out in the next room, followed by some bangs, curses, and what sounds like the cracklings of magic.

Bodahn shuffles in sheepishly. “Your friends are here to see you, Master Hawke.”

“My friends?” Hawke puts his pen down. “That’s odd. I didn’t know I had any friends with feet like a troll’s and a mouth like a sailor’s. Well—,” he amends, “At least not both on the same friend.”

Bodahn bows, and a moment later Varric and Anders enter, bearing between them what appears to be a very inebriated Fenris.

Hawke stands up. “Maker’s beard.”

Fenris frowns, brow furrowing in concentration. “Does the Maker have a beard?” he asks Anders, very seriously.

“…I’m not sure.”

Varric rolls his eyes. “We found him like this on the steps to Hightown. He’s drunker than four dwarves on a feast day.” Fenris is so tall he’s forced to support him round the waist rather than the shoulder.

“He was having a conversation with a potted plant,” Anders adds.

“Here.” Hawke takes Fenris by the shoulder, guiding him over to the armchair in front of the fire. The elf leans into him, burying his face into his neck, an arm wrapping tight round his waist, hand skating down to take hold of his ass. “You smell…smell like honey,” he slurs.

“And you smell like a brewery.” He pushes him toward the chair, but Fenris won’t let go. It’s a mark of how well and truly sloshed he is—it’s utterly unlike him to show any affection at all, especially not in front of an audience.

“We figured you’d be able to ram some sense into the idiot,” Anders says, arms crossed.

“Since word is you’ve rammed him before, and all that,” Varric adds.

“ _Hilarious_.” He rests a hand on the nape of Fenris’ neck. “I would see you out, but…”

“You’ve grown an elven appendage, we understand.” Varric salutes. “Evening, Hawke.”

“Evening. And thank you.”

Varric shrugs, earrings glinting briefly in the firelight. “We take care of our own, Champion.”

After they leave, Hawke makes another attempt to get Fenris into the chair. He goes more willingly this time, sinking down and putting his head in his hands. “I am…” He swallows and tries again. “I am very, very drunk.”

“I noticed.” Hawke hesitates for a moment, before smoothing a hand through his hair, moving down to cup his cheek. “I wish you would have gone to me rather than the bottle.”

“The bottle doesn…doesn’t talk back,” Fenris says. He’s rubbing his chin against Hawke’s hand, and when he looks up his eyes are pale and glassy, but no less haunting than they always are. When Hawke had seen those eyes for the first time, he’d known he didn’t have a bloody chance.

“I won’t rin—won’t run ‘way this time.” Fenris is having trouble getting his tongue round the words.

Hawke realizes what he’s talking about, and for a moment he wishes he didn’t count himself as a relatively good man.

“I’m not sleeping with someone too drunk to stand under his own power.” The pink tongue that flicks out to lap at the pad of his thumb certainly isn’t doing anything for his self-control. “If you still feel the same way in the morning—.”

“I…” Fenris grabs onto Hawke’s robe, hauling himself up to his feet. “I…I can stand.”

“Under your _own_ power, Fenris,” Hawke says, though he can’t help smiling. Even disheveled and reeking of cheap wine he is hard to resist. The lyrium scars that paint his body gleam silver in the firelight, striking against the sun-burnt dark of his skin. Hawks knows what they are, the suffering he has borne, but he can’t help admiring them.

“Was…was coming to see you.” Fenris sways on his feet. “Want you,” he murmurs, and when he leans in, Hawke can’t quite make himself resist. The kiss is as fierce and as hot as the first time, Fenris clumsy and insistent, pushing back too hard. He tastes like wine for a few seconds, before it fades to the subtle, almost-sweet burn of lyrium.

“Hawke—.” Fenris is pushing against him desperately. “Please.”

Hawke runs a hand up is back, rubbing warm over his spine. Fenris makes a noise of pleasure deep in his throat, panting harshly against his neck. A few moment later his breaths even out and he goes limp. He’s fallen asleep, Hawke realizes.

 _Maker_ , but does this one need taking care of.

 

Hawke is awoken the next morning before the seventh bell by a low, pained groan. Fenris is hunched at the edge of the bed, clutching at his head.

Hawke rubs the sleep from his eyes. “And what have we learned about binge-drinking?”

Fenris bares his teeth. “That it isn’t worth it if the man you’re trying to seduce is too honorable to take advantage of you.”

Hawke gets up, catching the hem of his trousers as they threaten to slide down his hips. “The state you were in you couldn’t have seduced an Antivan concubine,” he teases, heading for the storage box in the corner.

"Quiet,” Fenris growls. “My head hurts.”

Hawke chuckles, as softly as possible, padding back to the bed and catching Fenris’ chin. “I can help with that.” He presses a light kiss to his forehead, and presses a potion into his hand. “One of Anders’ concoctions.”

“Wonderful,” he groans.

He leaves Fenris to drink the remedy in peace, heading down to the empty kitchen. He gets as far as lighting the stove and filling the kettle with water before he hears the creaking of the back staircase. Fenris appears in the doorway, divested of his shirt, hair slicked back wet from his forehead. He still looks a little shaky, though some of his color has returned.

“Feeling any better?”

Fenris puts the empty bottle down on the table. “That mage may be insufferable, but he knows his remedies.”

“It comes of playing too many drinking games with dwarves,” Hawke says, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard, “And losing.”

Fenris laughs softly. Hawke is honestly surprised he hasn’t run off yet.

“Do you remember much from last night?” he asks, as offhandedly as possible.

“Enough.” His smile is deprecating as Hawke sets a steaming mug down in front of him. “I throw myself at you in a drunken stupor, and you’re making me tea.”

“I would make you breakfast instead, but I can’t guarantee it would be edible.”

He reaches for him without really meaning to. It may have had something to do with the easy domesticity of the scene, or the fact Fenris looks magnificent half-dressed—all slim, clean muscle and spiraling scars. He brushes a hand across his abdominals, down to the sharp angle of his hips. Fenris shies at the touch, pulling away. Hawke knows he should have been expecting it, but it still hurts.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, before realizing that it isn’t completely true. He lets out a noisy breath. “Am I so repulsive that you can only let me touch you when you’re too drunk to stand?”

Fenris’ eyes widen. “What? No, of course—.” He puts a palm to his forehead. “I just—there are so many things in my head, all shouting at ounce. I wanted to shut them out, if only for a moment.” He stops, as if waiting for a response. When he doesn’t get one, his eyes fall to the tabletop. It looks like he’s working himself up to something. “I’m still not used to the notion that I can have the things that I want.”

It takes Hawke a couple of moments to catch up with what those words had meant. “Fenris…”

This time Hawke is the one who gets shoved up against the wall, gets his hands pinned. Fenris’ mouth is sour with sleep and tastes of hangover remedy, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care when he pushes hard against him, grinding his arousal against his thigh.

A couple of moments later and the shock wares off, and he manages to pull his arms free, spin them round so Fenris is the one pressed against the wall. The lyrium lines pulse, reacting to the threat, bathing them in silver light.

Hawke bites at the tendons of his neck. “I want to suck your cock,” he breathes.

Fenris shudders, voice going rough. “ _Yes_. Yes, do it.”

The flagstones are cold against Hawke’s knees, but he doesn’t care, hands going to the fastenings of Fenris’ trousers, fumbling in his haste. The thatch of wiry hair at the base of his cock is lyrium-white, scars spiraling down across his belly to meet in a complicated pattern at his groin.

He licks a long, wet line up his cock, lapping at the head, touching his tongue to the sensitive underside. Fenris makes a deep, low noise, hands gripping tight on his shoulders.

Hawke sucks the head into his mouth, breathing out through his nose. He’s quite good at this, even if it has been a while. Relaxing his throat, he takes him in a long, slow slide.

“ _Hawke_.” Hearing his name moaned out rough and desperate makes him push down further, a little too far. He feels his throat seize up as he chokes.

He pulls up, coughing. “Sorry. Bit out of practice.”

Fenris’ pupils are blown wide, black nearly swallowing the grey. “That—.”

Hawke grins, wrapping a hand around the shaft and stroking. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He laps at the head with flat, wet passes of his tongue, splaying a hand against Fenris’ abdomen to feel his stomach tremble.

He lets out a string of curses that Hawke imagines he’d picked up from Varric somewhere along the line, twining fingers in his hair and pushing past his lips. “Can I—.”

Hawke makes an encouraging noise. He has absolutely no qualms about Fenris finally taking what he wants. He relaxes his throat as best he can, groaning as Fenris’ thrusts, tasting the hint of salt as he gets close. Passivity has never been one of his strength, however, and after a few moments he presses both hands to straining hips, forcing them back against the wall, pinning him there, taking him as deep as he can.

Fenris cries out, hips jerking uselessly, coming thick and hot across his tongue. Hawke swallows, feeling the burn of the lyrium in the back of his throat, giving him a few last licks before pulling away, sitting back on his heels.

He’s forced to move back in a moment, catching Fenris round the waist as he collapses into a shaky heap on the stone floor. His scars are gleaming silver, but it’s a warmer, subtler glow than they emit in the heat of battle. Hawke wonders if they reflect emotions other than anger after all.

“Apologies,” he groans. With his hair a mess, trousers undone, softening cock glistening with saliva, he is the picture of debauchery.

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Hawke says, voice a little ragged around the edges. “That you’re unable to keep your feet.”

Fenris’ smile is lazy and sated, happier than Hawke has ever seen him look. It makes something odd go off in the pit of his stomach, a tell-tale tightening. He’s had this feeling before and he’s certain it never leads anywhere fortuitous, but this time he thinks he doesn’t care.

“I’m beginning to suspect you are good at _everything_ you do,” Fenris laughs shakily. His eyes go lower, to where the silk of Hawke’s trousers are stretched tight over his arousal.

“I’m alright,” Hawke says, making to get up. “I’ll just—.”

A hand wraps tight around his bicep. “Stay.”

Hawke stays, groaning as Fenris pulls tugs his trousers down his hips.

He presses close, crouching between his splayed legs, stroking him rough and quick. Sword calluses catch at the sensitive skin, making Hawke gasp. Fenris makes an answering noise, something low and growling and predatory, like a wolf that’s picked up a scent. He bites at Hawke’s throat, tongue chasing a bead of sweat down to his collarbone.

“Maker,” Hawke groans, thrusting into the tight channel of Fenris’ hand. “Maker, that’s good.”

Fenris strokes him faster. “ _Come on_ ,” he growls, bites down hard, sends lighting lancing up Hawke’s spine, makes it easy to obey. He comes in a shaky rush, digging his fingers into Fenris’ arm. He’d be slightly embarrassed at coming so easily apart, but he’s distracted by the warm mouth working its way up his neck and to his lips.

When Fenris finally pulls away he’s smiling, albeit a little awkwardly. It softens the angles of his face, makes him look young and slightly vulnerable. “I…”

Something sinks in Hawke’s chest. “If you need to leave—.”

Fenris shakes his head. “I won’t run away again.” And now his grin is sheepish. “Though I appear in need of a bath.”

Hawke follows his gaze, down to where both of their chests are streaked white. “Ah. Right.” He climbs shakily to his feet, offering Fenris a hand. “It just so happens that I have one of those. Why don’t I show you, and we can further discuss you moving out of your manor and into mine?”

“'Further discuss'?” Fenris repeats. “When have we ever discussed it before?”

“Last night. You don’t remember?” Hawke shakes his head in mock offense. “Then I imagine you also don’t remember composing me an epic poem?”

“Please, I wasn’t _that_ drunk.”

“Drunk enough to grab my arse in front of Varric and Anders.”

Fenris groans. “Let us never speak of it.”


End file.
